Zippy and I went for a run this morning and it wasn’t until our cool-down walk that I noticed this:

A spit trail down my thigh. Apparently the wind caught my saliva rocket and returned it to me.

When I got home and started my stretches, I realized I’m basically an all-around rag-tag runner gal wearing holey socks and a ripped 20+-year-old polypro long underwear shirt:
   

I do, however, have a fairly new Garmin watch in fashionista chartreuse:

Look for me on the nearest runway. I’ll be the one rockin’ the groovy watch and sweat-stained togs. I promise not to spit.